Mayflower Blue
by breatheinsync
Summary: Mellie had spent a lifetime becoming accustomed to muzzling the voice inside of her, long enough that she'd nearly failed to recognize it when it spoke up again. When it drove her to do something that she knew she ought to regret, but couldn't. Here is the story of her humanity. (Possibly a one-shot, possibly I'll add a few more chapters.)


Somewhere along the way, she became "Mellie."

She'd always hated that name, but it had been worth everything to be able to add "Grant" to the end of it. That had made it a tolerable travesty, so she's smiled at herself in hallway mirrors and played polite with campaign contributors, and pretended to be Mellie. But that was the thing. If you faked it long enough, you'd eventually make it. You'd become everything you'd wanted to avoid being in college. Instead of feeling as she did now, unsure if she's more resentful for the upbringing she had or the fact that those four years released something inside of her that had no place there, something wild and cruel and selfish. Endlessly selfish. A disease that had spread through her to Fitz, infecting him, a constant plague to their marriage.

Only, he's not brave enough to tamp it down, not clever enough to hang onto the reins of control with precise acuity. He's not willing to make the necessary sacrifices, not based on something simple, something constantly changing, something as unstable as _wants_. He's a man, isn't he. She'd almost believed that she'd been wrong about Olivia and Fitz, that when he'd taken her to the Archives, to see the Constitution _she'd_ dreamt of seeing since she'd worn her hair in frizzy pigtails, that maybe she didn't understand. But Olivia had left and he'd found another woman to satisfy his appetite. That's all it was.

Appetites were a funny thing, she mused, as she sat in a high-back plush armchair, the print a floral design that Betty Ford herself had re-upholstered. Her legs were crossed at the ankles, angled at the knee, her chin resting in her palm as she peered out the window. This was what appetites led you to, foolishly gazing out of windows, peering out from behind the glass cage of windows. She could feel the desires climbing within her, like smoke billowing out from the center until it coated everything, made all the rest of it invisible. _She wanted_. That was the fire, the engaging spark that had set off something that hadn't quite managed to sputter out.

Her hand found its way to her pearls, a perfectly lined set at the edge of her throat, cool and smooth against her skin. When she touched them, she can't help the slow smile that curves her mouth, or the way her fingertips traced each rounded edge. Her grandfather had had affairs. She'd heard her grandmother tell her mother that in a room almost like this one, three women sitting perfectly still as the words hung in the air. But they took that torturous secret and draped silk and duty over it. As though you could hide the elephant behind false beauty. Her father had had affairs. He'd even brought one of them to her cotillion, pretended that she was just a colleague from his law firm but the way his hand touched the small of her back told her everything she'd needed to know.

Her mother would never have considered it. Her grandmother wouldn't have even realized it was an option. But she had. She knew. It had happened the very first time they'd met. He'd looked at her across the table, while her husband made eyes at Olivia Pope and everyone else avoided eye contact. Poor Mellie. Poor cheated-upon wife, poor long-suffering female, a boring cliche. She hadn't minded the infidelity, not really considering how long it had been since he'd made her feel anything besides apathy in the bedroom. She preferred the distance, enjoyed curling up in comfortable silence on her own side of the bed. It was much easier to stop pretending when it was dark.

It had been his, "Honey, it's not necessary, we believe you." She realized that it had never even occurred to him that she might do something surprising, that she might actually need some semblance of affection and compassion for herself. Her teeth had dug into the flesh at the inside of her bottom lip, an ugly habit she'd never managed to rid herself of, and she'd stormed away from the table, leaving Olivia Pope to deal with her latest disaster. Her footsteps had been quick, but she'd held her expression calmly, smiling at staffers and keeping her face in check until she could get away to the quiet of being outdoor.

_He'd found her there._ She pursed her lips now, remembering with a pang of pity, how surprised she'd been that someone followed after her, that someone had even noticed her presence in a room occupied by Olivia Pope.

"Mrs. Grant, are you alright?" he'd asked, the concern in his voice only serving to infuriate her further. She set her teeth together before she turned around to face him, unsure if the pain mixed with hate was clear in her eyes, but she was beyond caring. There were steps separating their bodies and then suddenly, there wasn't. There was no distance between her palm and the back of his neck as she insistently tugged his mouth to hers, found his with hers as her eyes shut. Now, here, this, that's all there was and that's all she wanted.

She set her fingers to bruise, allowed them to dig into skin as her teeth delighted in the softness of his lips, a new discovery made. Some sputtered noise came out of him, but she couldn't stop herself as she allowed herself to ride along the crooked edge of insanity. How beautiful, how delicious the sin tasted as it danced along the tip of her tongue. A few seconds and his hands were on her sides, palms flat, wide and warm. _Finally, finally_, she thought before his groan echoed inside of her mouth, forcing her awake. Her entire body retreated immediately, stepping back, wide-eyed, wantonly red lips and cheeks.

"I'm so sorry," she rushed out, staring directly at his shoulder to avoid meeting his eyes. She caught his nod of acceptance out of her peripheral before hearing him clear his throat. Neither said anything for a beat, another, silently waiting for the haze to clear, to lessen into something more manageable.

"We need to go back," he reminded her, somehow still kind after what had passed between them. _It's too late_, she wanted to say, to explain that there was no back to go to, but she moved her head up and down in acquiescence. She stepped back, making room for him to leave, hearing his footfalls grow quieter before stopping. The exhale she let out was as shaky as her fingers as they touched the swollen flesh of her mouth, eyes closing as she tried to gather the ferocity that had spilled out inside of her. Her breath calmed again before she turned and strode back into the campaign offices.

It could have stopped there, a distant memory, a tiny ember she stored to survive the placidity of her marriage. _But it hadn't_. Big Gerry's arrival had set Fitz on edge, made him reckless and she couldn't manage to control him. Everything she'd ever dreamed was in her grasp, twirling at the end of her fingertips. She could almost feel the presidency resting in her palm, but all Fitz could see was Olivia. She sat in a town hall practice session as Fitz pouted, and then looked straight at Olivia, as though no one else existed. She played perfect hostess as he threw a drunken tantrum, but it was finding them in the elevator that destroyed her. It was the memory of making nice with Olivia Pope, putting her arms around her husband's mistress out of necessity, that emptied her of emotions.

She had looked down at Fitz's slumbering form, having passed out in a whiskey-induced stupor and wished she could hate him, as she resented the smell of his drink on their sheets, in their shared space. But she felt numb, exhausted, and she needed something. Even the sensation of her nails digging into her palms failed to awaken it and it was that desperation that had her climbing out of her bed at 2 am barely weeks before the election. It was irrational, near-sighted, but she couldn't survive without just a tiny taste. The wrap dress slid easily over her skin and she didn't let herself pause at the mirror to check her reflection, knowing that the beginning hints of anticipation inside of her stomach were enough to make the blood rush to her cheeks. Even this simple preparation began to incite tiny little sparks inside of her until she felt herself arising.

She knocked too quietly the first time, a momentary submission to the demands of her training. The second time, she didn't hesitate, didn't bother to carefully glance around to ensure none of the other doors opened. Her knuckles rapped against the formidable surface before it opened, his eyes half-closed as he peered out at her. The muscles of his chest were visible, even in the low light of night and she very nearly bit her lip at the wanton thought that flashed in her mind.

"Mrs. Grant?" he wondered aloud, sleep a slippery coating on his voice, a sliver of space between the door and body. It was all the invitation she needed before she slid inside, pacing inside to the edge of the balcony window, her arms tightly wrapped around her middle. His eyes were bewildered, rubbing a hand over his face in a failed attempt to clear his thoughts before staring at the line of her spine.

"Take me to bed," she whispered, a murmured prayer. He seemed to choke on her words as she heard his cough behind her, turning this time to look at him closely, to face the impending mistake she was on the verge of making.

"Are you alright?" he asks, eyebrows drawing together to form a tiny ridge and her thoughts raced instantly to curiosity as to what it would feel like against hers. As though he couldn't make sense of the words that had just left her mouth. This time, she met his eyes. She'd nearly forgotten how erotic intimacy could be. Not just the sensations, the touches, but holding the gaze of someone as your hands blindly undid the pretty bow holding your dress together. The tiny pinpricks of anxiety as the two sides of the thin fabric fell apart and you were caught, in this choice, in this moment, in this body. There was no escape.

She shrugged her shoulders and the dress slithered to the floor, leaving her skin glistening in the slices of moonlight cutting into the dark of the room. Leaving her shoes at the edge of the bed in a move that spoke of more vulnerability that she was comfortable with, she edged closer to him, uncaring about anything except a singular thought: the incessant curiosity regarding the dip of his throat, the tiny teardrop at the base of his neck. She wasn't sure which of them was more surprised at the exact second when her tongue flicked out against his warm skin to taste, but neither seemed to survive that onslaught easily.

She inhaled deeply, trying to gorge herself on the scent that coated his skin as her mouth journeyed lower. His hands were strong as they moved to her forearms, guiding her back to a distance so he could look down at her face. Her stomach churned at the possibility that he'd cast her aside, that she would stay frozen inside of herself for the rest of her days but something seemed to move inside him in return as he pulled her body back against his. And something inside of her burst, but that was the risk you took when the ice inside of you melted at such an extraordinary rate, perilously quickly, carrying the threat of being swept up in the undertow.

"Touch me," she requested, closing her mouth against his shoulder to stop herself from saying _please_, from begging, but she didn't need to, not when his fingers were dragging down the curve of her sides to her hips, pressing her breasts against the muscles of his chest. Not when his teeth tugged at the top of her ear, pushing her hair to the side to leave a demanding kiss on the side of her neck. The next full thought she had was the feeling of the bed pressing insistently against her calf muscles, demanding she lay back, which she gladly gave in to. It was so much more than hunger in the way his eyes moved down her body in her moment, her pale skin somehow turned golden in contrast to the stark whiteness of the sheets.

Some traitorous voice in her mind wondered if this was how her husband looked at his mistress when they fucked, as though no one else in the world had ever looked quite like this, but she didn't want them there in this moment. This was hers. Wholly, selfishly, defiantly hers, and here now, there were hands that cupped her breasts and thumbs that made her hips arch up off the bed in an impulsive move that she hadn't realized she was capable of. And then hands fell away and were replaced with mouth, tongue and teeth and tugging and taunting. Her own clutched at his sides, wanting to feel the weight of his body on top of hers, needed the heaviness of another presence holding onto her.

When his hands drifted along her stomach and then down to just trail along the inside of her thighs, everything merged on a singular point inside of her, gathering speed as it rolled over in her stomach. When his fingertips slipped along secret slopes, the noise she made floated inside of her skin. Soon, fingers weren't enough and she arched her back to push his pajama bottoms down his hips, and this wasn't love, this wasn't romance and candelight and violin music, but who ever wanted classical sounds when there was the rhythm of his thudding heart against her breast and his groan muffled throbbing against her own flesh.

Surprising both of them, she rolled him over onto the bed beneath her and slid smoothly down onto him. He lifted his head to nuzzle into the hollow between her ribs and she pushed him back, holding herself back from allowing this to be anything more than a filthy secret, dirty hotel room sex. But there were benefits to such a travesty like the way his hips slowly rocking made her head fall back as her own hands smoothed up along her stomach. She'd seen that move in porn once, accidentally, and now she understood why that woman had moved like this. Because here, now, there was such heat inside of her skin, barely held aloft by her bones and she had to get closer to the source, to feel every bit of that glowing deliciousness for herself, with hands, his and hers. She felt free of herself, uncivilized, unburdened.

He tried to say something, she imagined it was her name, but she couldn't afford to compound one mishap with another, so she silenced him with a bruising kiss, distracted with the rise and fall of her hips. Her head fell forward, her dark hair framing her face as she looked down, not at his face, but at the place where their bodies were joined. How lovely to know that she could revel in being a sinner, that she could be normal, that she could be part of her family's great legacy. There was that twisted sense of humor her mother had tried to rid her of. Soon, it was his hand sliding between their torsos to send her drowning, something between hysteria and enchantment surging to the top, exploding out of her with a senseless cry.

She dropped her head to his shoulder, allowing both of them only a moment of weakness. His breath came out in broken pants, hers in quiet whimpers, and she hated herself for being soothed by the way his hand stroked along her sweaty back but it felt so good. Everything felt perfect. There was a part of her that she admired and abhorred that wanted to curl up against him and stay there, in that place where she was alive and aware and amazed. But it was an imaginary place and she didn't belong there, could never survive this emotional assault on a daily basis..

Instead she raised her head and dropped a kiss to the corner of his mouth before detaching herself from him, lifting herself neatly out of the situation. It should have surprised her, how quickly she could turn off her feelings, like a rusty faucet. The dress slid easily back up as she stood, leaving him there on the bed, wondering if she should ask how he felt or apologize but she couldn't bring herself to fake concern, not here, not after her ravaging honesty a few moments ago. He sat at the edge of the bed with his feet on the floor, leaning forward as his hands held onto the sheets, watching her leave and she was at the door, her hand on the knob before she turned back.

"Melody," she sighed, meeting his eyes directly as she tells him, as she gave him something she hadn't planned on.

"What?"

"Not Mrs. Grant. Not Mellie. Melody." That's all she could allow, and it was already too much, so she left and though she wanted to stop in the hallway and give herself a moment to gather herself elegantly, she couldn't stop. No, outside of the door, she had become Mellie again and Mellie was an expert in silencing her own voice.

But in the present, Mellie and Melody seem to consider one another, a tiring armistice that never manages to fully satisfy either one of them. But that memory of a campaign hotel room pleases both of them, because in that bed, in that shade of darkness, Melody was unleashed, unshackled and blissfully, brutally aware of her own vitality. And for Mellie, there was a sense of smug satisfaction. She was still Mrs. Grant, despite the fact that Olivia Pope had posed a credible, if temporary, threat to her time as First Lady. As far as Mellie was concerned, they were even now. Because Olivia might have slept with her husband, but Mellie had taken her gladiator as a lover. It was an elegant bit of symmetry that both had lost something to the other.

**/**

**A/N:** I got inspired by a discussion I had this past weekend with a group of brilliant, wonderful Gladiators on tumblr and since I had these feelings inside of me, I had to get them out. Mellie intrigues me quite a bit and I want to know who she is outside of Mellie x Fitz. Anyway, I hope you enjoy. If you love me, you'll leave me comments. 3


End file.
